a brief treatise in cartography
by possibilist
Summary: 'I used to hurt myself,' Quinn says.' Quinn-centric drabble. Faberry or Fabrastings—left to your discretion. Definite trigger warning.


summary: ''I used to hurt myself,' Quinn says.' Quinn-centric drabble. Faberry or Fabrastings—left to your discretion. Definite trigger warning.

an (1): this is filed as faberry, but could also be fabrastings.

also. so, as most of you probably don't know, i used to self-harm. i've gotten a few requests to write something along the lines of what follows, and i never felt like i could—like it was something to be transcribed. but i think i had to try. whether it's a fictional character or not—self-harm is a very real thing, and to address it is important. i take this so seriously. i'll probably always struggle with this, as well as other things. you are all lovely, and lovable, and deserve the world. i needed to hear it more than i ever did, and i still do; maybe you need to hear it right now: you are_ beautiful_.

an (2): listen to ellie goulding's cover of 'the wolves (act i and ii).'

...

a brief treatise in cartography

_._

'_explore me,' you said and i collected my ropes, flasks and maps, expecting to be back home soon. i turn a corner and recongnise myself again. myself in your skin, myself lodged in your bones, myself floating in the cavities that decorate every surgeon's wall. that is how i know you. you are what i know._

.

You map Quinn's body with scars as capitols: Bike Accident, age 9; Spinal Surgery (II), age 19; Cheerleading, age 15; Russell, age 4-16.

You learn the origin of these cities—the holy wars and peace treaties—gradually throughout the years. At breakfast a passing, And then I fell; a whispered, It _hurt_ in the middle night when she thinks you're asleep.

You learn about what it was like to wake up in the hospital without feeling your legs. You learn about what it was like to have your own father lash your skin. You learn what it was like to dream of flying, and then to fall; Quinn was 6 when she jumped from the swings and broke her arm, leaving a puckered, rough scar the size of a pebble in the middle of her right palm.

.

There are scars you only notice years after you first meet. In the morning light as she sleeps in bed next to you, in the glow of candles, those first moments she dances with head thrown back and hair whipping in the beach breeze.

You know now not to ask, so you only kiss them directly sometimes, softly, taste them with the tip of your tongue.

.

'I used to hurt myself,' Quinn says. She's sitting at your kitchen table, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and sipping tea.

'I'm sorry,' you say. It seems more adequate than _I know _or _Thank you for finally telling me_, although these are true as well.

She moves in the chair, folds herself up so her legs are tucked underneath her. She reminds you of something you'd see in a film, the way the world is always framing her—Sophia Coppola's _Lost in Translation_—architectonics and referentiality. She motions with her hand for you to come sit next to her, so you do. You kiss behind her ear, a hollow, gently.

She lifts her sweatshirt and guides your fingers to skim along the inside wrinkles of her belly button. You feel a ridge there, one that's unnatural and out of place—although you suppose scars are, in fact, just as organic as any other thing—and you just hold the pad of your ring finger against the raised bump of skin there.

'When I was thirteen,' Quinn says. 'It was the first time. And I—it was hidden, in case anyone ever looked.'

Your chest seizes and sometimes you wish you'd never met her. She doesn't cry; her voice is calm and smooth and steady.

'No one did,' she says.

.

One day, you're at the park near your apartment, and you're sitting by the playground. Quinn is humming; Quinn licks along her ice cream cone so it won't drip onto her hand. She gets some on her nose, and you're about to tease her when she looks at her wrist.

'I dug my fingernail in there,' she tells you, then points to a little sliver in her skin. 'After my parents kicked me out.'

You imagine you won't ever know what to say. Your skin is unblemished; that is, you never hurt yourself, at least not physically, and never like that. It horrifies you, that someone as beautiful and good and lovely as Quinn would ever do anything like that.

'I was very sad for a long while,' she says.

You rub your thumb over her wrist, then take her hand with a gentle squeeze.

She smiles gently and licks her ice cream cone again.

.

You're playfully writing your phone number on the top of Quinn's right hand one night at a bar and she giggles and then says, 'I used to poke through my hand with a safety pin.'

'What?'

Quinn shrugs. She points to a lightened dot of skin, then five or six more.

'_Quinn_.' Her name is a whoosh of breath.

'It's gross, I know.'

You shake your head.

'I didn't want to write,' she says. 'I didn't want to _want _to write. And then on manic days, the bad ones, I just—' She bites her bottom lip. 'Mostly my right hand, because then it hurt afterward.'

'Baby,' you say, and she closes her eyes. Quinn's a professor of literature, holds a doctorate in literary theory; she's a brilliant writer. You hold her hands—perfect, beautiful, elegant hands that you've kissed time and again.

Quinn rests her head against your shoulder and you put her hands against your chest to remind her of what remains.

'What's especially weird is that only the top of my hands scarred. Never my palms.' Her breath is hot against your shoulder, seeping through your sweater and into the ripped wings of your shoulder blades.

'I love you,' you tell her.

She nods against your skin, bites your shoulder lightly. 'I love you too.'

.

You trace along a scar on the inside of her thigh one night with your tongue, and you're about to move your mouth further when she says, 'That one's not from the accident.'

You think about groaning—you almost do, because _God_, she's lovely and you're aching—but you stay quiet and move so that you're resting on an elbow facing her with messy hair and hooded eyes.

'I was high the summer before senior year of high school and—yeah, I think scissors.'

You start to cry this time, angrily. 'Why did no one ever stop you?'

Quinn kisses your cheeks. 'I don't think I wanted them to.'

'That shouldn't have mattered.'

Quinn sucks in a breath.

'It's the job of people who love you to—I don't know—'

'Tear you apart so you see yourself,' Quinn says, then rolls over so that she's on top of you. She slides her body against yours. 'Let me make love to you,' she asks.

You put your fingers gently under the little dimple in her chin and kiss her. You say, 'Thank you.'

.

You go to her office one day before you're off to work. You stop before walking into the bright space because the door's cracked, and you hear her say, 'I don't know why we hurt ourselves. I don't think I've figured it out yet.'

You peer inside and a boy is sitting across from her. He's maybe nineteen or twenty, and he's crying.

Quinn smiles. 'But, you know, some wonderful guy is out there, and he's going to think that any of those scars are sad—so sad—but he's also going to tell you that you're beautiful because of them. Which is true.'

The boy sniffles.

Quinn sits back in her chair. 'People fuck up all the time, more often than not. But when they don't—It's grace. And it's stunning.'

The boy wipes his nose and nods. Quinn stands, hands him a tissue, gives him a hug. 'Thank you,' he says.

Quinn shakes her head. 'I just think everyone needs to hear it. Sometimes I wish someone would've told me sooner.'

'Yeah.'

'But then I might not be here, so—Today you're going to be okay. I promise.'

The boy gives Quinn another quick hug and then nods. 'I will,' he says. 'Yeah.'

'Have a nice evening, Peter,' Quinn says with a wave.

'You too, Professor Fabray.'

You back away from the doorway quickly and Peter grins at you when he walks through it.

'You're very wonderful,' he says, patting your arm and smiling towards Quinn. There's a picture of the two of you on her desk, and she's kissing your cheek.

'So are you,' you say.

.

'Most of the times didn't leave a scar.' Quinn says this one Sunday afternoon when she's writing a paper. Your feet are propped on her lap.

You move so you can kiss her. You run your hands along all of her skin.

You kiss a bruise on her hip from when she ran into the kitchen counter the day before, and then she starts to cry.

'Sometimes I'm amazed you're alive,' you say.

Quinn nods with a little soggy laugh.

'I'm very glad,' you say. This is the capitol of all capitols, a nebulous space of existence, and you connect all of the scars with your fingers weaving tapestry against her cells: treaties, borders, continents, oceans lapping against your own.


End file.
